


Night

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights are filled with worry and sadness. Others are calm and quiet. This is one of the calm ones. A quiet reflective piece for mrspencil for shared cups of virtual tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night

**Author's Note:**

> For mrspencil on fanfic and insomnia filled nights – for sharing a cup of tea, a listening ear and a virtual hug.
> 
> Don’t own. Wish I did.

Some nights could be disturbing, filled with remembered shadows and childhood fears. They would fidget with adult anxieties, which, to an adult not vested in remembering a child’s fears are every bit as genuine, seemed even more overpowering, more real. Death, taxes, work, growing old. Growing up. Guilt, grief, panic. If one had children, fear for their safety and sanity.

John Watson’s fears were real, substantial and thick and some nights they’d swim around waiting to bite and mangle, they filled him with hopeless dread and never ending despair which swirled and churned and wouldn’t leave until the sun came up and dissolved them with it’s radiance. It rushed into the hidden places in his soul and cleaned out the untamed beasts for another day.

Night was sometimes his friend. On one of those the dark wrapped around him and comforted him as he sat and tried not to enter into the realm of depression. He felt if he sat just the right way in the dark and held still then the heavy thoughts wouldn’t find him to drag him under and away. If he sat in just the right way he could get a semblance of balance back and not list.

Those nights were so much better than the ones where he felt if he moved suddenly or shifted his weight there’d be no turning back from the hell he’d created in his own head.

The night could be safe, quiet or it could hide the things best left covered up. It could be menacing and trick his mind. Night could reveal wonders.

Especially nights like this. A night with a full moon and the city sleeping soundly and if not still, then rested, under a blanket of gleaming silver. Perhaps, on a night like this, the light filled him with hope and because it wasn’t truly dark, neither were his thoughts.

John crept down the stairs in his worn pyjama bottoms and ratty t-shirt, move soundlessly and surefooted into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He had done this simple task so many times whilst awake or half asleep it was second nature. He could move with the assurance that he would not disturb anyone up other than himself.

Or perhaps it would nudge someone who might be hovering on the threshold of waking. 

Something caught at the edge of his hearing and without much of a pause he pulled down a second mug. By the time he had filled the mugs with boiled water, let the tea brew and added the preferred elements, he was joined in the kitchen by a tall, slightly disheveled lanky specter, every bit as corporeal as himself.

Sherlock grunted his thanks as John handed him his mug. Normally the two would move into the living room where Sherlock, if the mood struck, would pick up his violin and the music he produced would fill the flat and John’s wild monsters would contain their terrible roars and sheath their terrible claws and his rough and fearful thoughts would untangle and smooth out. Sometimes the two would go and sit and watch telly and Sherlock would hurl abuse at the screen and it would have a similar effect, as the humour of his comments would break free and dissolve anything grim or scary.

But on a good night, on a calm friend filled night, John and Sherlock would sit in companionable silence and sip their tea. No words needed to be spoken; no thoughts were ruffled. They could sit in relaxed nighttime.

Sit and not fear or worry or despair.

Just exist in a calm island and a safe haven.

Some nights were like that


End file.
